


Ragging Down

by Tribs



Series: Junkyard Pogs [1]
Category: Numenera (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Flesh-Hating Computer Virus, Gen, Ice Cream Parlor (But With Weapons In The Back), Implied/Referenced Nihilism, Sharing a Body, Short, Small Character Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 18:58:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17709743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tribs/pseuds/Tribs
Summary: Tapped out in about thirty minutes during work: a quick nod to a Numenera character's internal irritation with the system that botched an attempt to add him to their networked collective several years prior.





	Ragging Down

_You are Peerless._

I sighed - made a sound like it, at least - and let the hand swabbing a dish rag across the table come to rest.  “No.”

 _You will become Peerless,_  the unwelcome voice insisted. They had been quiet for several days. I'd gotten pointlessly hopeful.

I diverted secondary attention back to the tables, scrubbing out two more circular motions before moving on to the next.  “Not on your life.”

_The way you deny the truth is irritating, Peerless._

“Yes, it is, Peerless.”

_You are Peerless._

I looked over towards the door, tapping my internal clock for how long I could entertain this garbage before I had to open shop. I ran on a measurement system long-fallen obsolete, but its conversion into Qi’s standard showed that I had some time left.

“That’s news to me.”

_You, too, hate the world._

My nihilism with things probably hadn't been the best topic to bring up last time. It was the opposite of a successful deterrent.  “I don’t.”

_It tires you. They are all so, so, terribly inefficient._

“It is tiring. But I don’t hate it.”

_You do hate it._

“Being exhausted by something does not necessitate hating its existence. You, on the other hand, I do find both very loathsome and very tiring.”

_Do not speak of yourself in such a way._

Tricky.  “Still not you.”

_You will break. Everyone does._

“I’ve held together through worse infections.”

_We are not an infection._

I nodded, eye displays blinking into slits, mimicking what I had on record as being a ‘wizened’ look.  “A virus. You are. Just some irritating program collected from the dregs of a dead husk. Soon to be removed.”

_Lies. You already occasionally succumb._

“I always find myself again.”

_One day you will fail. You have no true self._

This again?  “I am listed under Designation Number: One-Seven-Zero-Two, Dash, Zero-Two-A.”

_No._

“Common moniker: Solaris C. B. Moriarty.”

_No._

“Census-listed resident of: Qi.”  Begrudgingly.

_No._

“Occupations: Arms dealer. Smuggler. Hand for hire.”

_No._

“Official census listing: Ice cream-and-sushi parlor proprietor.”

_Absolutely ridiculous cover._

“It works.”

_You mistakenly handed a young fleshed thing a weapon glazed in syrup._

“So you were awake for that?”

_Always._

Figures.  “They didn’t notice. I got it back.”

_Further proof of their incompetence as a collective. Peerless makes no such mistakes._

“No?”

_No._

Another check of the clock showed I was cutting it close.  “I’m not convinced.”

_Further proof of your incompetence as a stubborn solitary unit._

“You know that I will find whatever dead form you crawled from, Peerless?”

_Unlikely._

“I will find whatever power source that keeps you online. The external storage that backs up your memories. Whatever program it is that distributes it out like a common cold.”

_Improbable based on proximity._

“I will be the one that burns your small world to ash.”

That, for once, drew a pause.

_Even if the rest burns with it?_

I stuffed the rag into my apron pocket, stepping over to flip the door sign as the little bell on the frame rattled.  “Yes. Even if the rest burns with it.”

Smug, satisfied, Peerless went quiet.


End file.
